Purse Prize, and my MAJOR INTERNATIONAL AWARD

So who's the big winner?

Vanna (daughter Jane) and I put all the comments in the purse, and she drew one out!
Congratulations to...

Shanana at Three Men and a Little Lady!
She commented:

Fake Coach Couture?!? I'm THERE!I have to admit, I'm quite jealous of your 36
inch inseam. I am about 36" tall (TOTAL) and constantly have to have the podium
lowered for me when I get up to speak in sacrament meeting... Even when it's a
youth speaker that precedes me. BTW, I added you to my blog roll, since I seem
to have developed a habit of stalking your very entertaining musings. Hope you
don't mind.

No, I don't mind, Shana! As a matter of fact, in gratitude, I'm going to send you a purse!

It looks like Shana is a Mom and a Pediatric Dentist (very impressive, Shana, but we all know we only get the cream of the blogging crop here at Beeswax, so we aren't surprised that you are amazing. We are uppity that way) who lives in Santa Monica, CA. As I analyzed her profile, in a sort of stalky way, I noticed we both love The Office, So You think You Can Dance, chocolate, O Brother Where Art Thou, Death Cab for Cutie, Les Miserables, and Harry Potter. Might I also go so far as to suggest that we both probably like pizza and puppies, too? And rainbows? And I'm totally for world peace. What about you?

So now, the bag will make it's way to the left coast, to live on the arm of a woman who is 36 inches tall! Unless she is lying! Which she probably is! Because in her picture she looks bigger than that! Like at least 42 inches, which is big enough to get on the Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland!

I should ask her how she likes that ride, and then if she says "it's AWESOME!," then she'll totally feel the mode, cause I'll have tricked her into revealing that she is really over 42 inches tall, instead of a puny 36.

I'm a genius.
Unless she gets wise to me. And says "Indiana who?"

So, Shanana, please email me at kellybeeswax@gmail.com with your address, and I will ship this purse outta here! From China, to Canal Street, to Mesa, to your door!

Thanks to all who entered, and who told me how fabulous my new jeans are. They are fabulous! They are magic jeans. My head is swollen from all the compliments. Thank you, blogging friends.
I feel the need to respond to a few comments:

Brigham, I'm not sure this thing is really leather. I'm not sure it could have handled the wrenches.

Fake Jodi Foster, I am so excited to e-meet my famous stalk-lebrity! Please come back often.

To Hailey, who wants the rearside view of my jeans: such a picture might theoretically exist, but it will not make it into cyberspace. Unless someone is willing to match in dollars whatever Brangelina got for the first pics of the twins.

To Kitchen Ditcher, who went home to her blog and whined that she wasn't cool like me: Ask anybody. I'm not cool, either. It is just the jeans. I'm super nerdy, and I like it that way.

To Lisa, at Away From It All, who gave me my very first blog award! Lisa lives in Poland, people. And she has a cool blog, which you should go visit. So, what that means is that this is a
MAJOR INTERNATIONAL AWARD.


Which is such a coup.

But then she linked to Sue, who said blog awards were less like awards than STDs, so I don't know exactly what to think of that? Except that it is sort of true. But still, I am grateful to receive such a MAJOR INTERNATIONAL AWARD.

Canal Street COACH giveaway tomorrow! Enter NOW! (And also, a joke. That isn't funny. At all.)

Comment HERE to maybe win my fake COACH purse tomorrow!

Here's a joke.

What do you call five crickets in your bathroom sink?

BAIT.

Scorpion bait.

It isn't a very funny joke.

Told you so.

Kids and babysitters found him Saturday night. They chased him around the living room, shot him with nerf guns, attempted to drown him (unsuccesfully), poked at him with sticks, and then released him into storm drain.

Photo courtesy of Kendree the babysitter's cell phone.

Chinatown Special: COACH Bag Giveaway! (And me and the jeans go out on the town. And we eat six desserts, accidently.)

I know you all came here anxious for Album I totally forgot to listen to for ten years but is really super great, plus look how many crickets are in my sink Wednesday, but I just didn't feel like blogging about music and crickets today, and I just refuse be tied down to such conventions, even though this would only be the second week. I'm a free-bloggin'-spirit. I usually wear a bra, though. A free-bloggin'-spirit is like a hippie, only with a bra.

The jeans arrived on Friday, midday. I love them. I think they like me okay, too, but they might be happier if I didn't fill them up quite so much, with so many desserts and hamburgers. I might need to stop going to In-n-Out drive-thru 3 times a week. Why oh why are the burgers only 1.5 miles away? Is dangerous proximity. Some days, though, I just need to get myself a hamburger with grilled onions and light spread, and go home and sit on the couch and watch House Hunters on TIVO. That 1/2 hour is the most relaxing part of my day. Is like a mini spa vacation. If spas had pink spread. Which they don't.

Also, I might have gone to delicious new Italian place down over to the San Tan Mall two Fridays in a row. It is called Brio, but a better name might be DELICIOSO. Which might not be an Italian word at all, cause I only speak Spanish.

While I was there, I might have ordered 6 desserts. Yes, on both visits. Stop opening up your eyes all wide like that. Like you've never eaten six desserts before. Your contacts are going to dry up and fall out, if you don't blink. I know, cause when I'm lying on the floor after yoga class and listening to the relaxing porpoises-screeching-new-age-beach-music (like us free-bloggin'-spirits are wont to do), sometimes I forget to blink, and once my contact fell out. Which isn't relaxing at all.

*** IMPORTANT CORRECTION*** As I pondered the dessert, I began to think there might have only been five, plus some of Jake's cake, which really only equals 5.5 desserts. I can't believe I OVERestimated my dessert intake. Is crazy.

Anyway, there were five tiny cups (minuscule, really) filled with cheesecake, creme brulee, chocolate cake with caramel, something that tastes like flan but isn't (panacotta), and finally, I switched out the requisite tiramisu for

chocolate hazelnut creme brulee.

Which is the best one.

That's why I bolded it.

In case you were skimming this post to get to the free coach purse giveaway. Which is cool, but you shouldn't miss out on the chocolate hazelnut creme brulee just because I'm so verbose that I can turn a picture of me in my new jeans into a Master's thesis. I totally need an editor.

So anyhow, when you go to Brio and order your six desserts, don't forget to make the switch. Or if you are digging the booze soaked lady fingers (gross), switch out the panacotta (medium gross, but I still ate it). Tell your server you want the Beeswax Special. He'll know what you're talking about, and will wink at you conspiratorially.

No, he won't. I'm totally lying.

Anyhow, don't fret about me and my jeans. They go on for now, it's just that one more Friday at Brio, and they might have to go on sabbatical until I get a handle on the treat intake.

(I didn't even tell you about Saturday night at the Krispy Kreme. I think you already the picture on the dietary train wreck, though, right?)

I do have a plan, you know. The whole problem is easily solved by:

a: aversion electro-shock hypno-water-therapy
or

b: moving further out into the desert, away from the In-n-out

or

c: only ordering one dessert, not six, every week

or

d: going back on the "Kelly, you eat too d*** much" diet (the *** stand for a,n, & g), on which I lost nearly 13 pounds, by using tough love on myself and eating a measly 1300 calories a day

or

e: combination of all of the above.

Okay, maybe not "b". Moving is extreme behavior for hamburger avoidance. Should only be last resort.

Here's a picture of me in my new jeans at the apple store, which is right across the street from Brio. It was taken by my lovely sister-in-law Jane, with whom we double-dated, and who always remembers to take pictures. I sort of love that with my wonderful Cole Haan/Nike Air Mary Jane tall-tall shoes, I dominate all 35 inches of that inseam! I'm thinking of taking my old tall jeans to the tailor to get hacked, and leaving these alone for awhile. Seems a shame to cut them off, you know? I mean, I already have the shoes...

What's that? You would you like a better look at the shoes? My 35 inch inseam is obstructing your view? I got them at the Carlsbad Outlets while I was on vacation in California, for almost free (only mine are pewter). Like 40% off of already 75% off. And they are tall, but also very bouncy, thanks to Nike, so I might be able to dunk if I wanted to play basketball in these beautiful shoes. Which I do not. And since they wanted to give them away to me, I also got these hot mama Nike/Cole hybrids, which I enjoy;

Spouse thinks they look like working girl shoes.

If he is referring to the kind of girls who work in the Primary at Church with all the sweet, little children, then he is totally right! Cause that's where I will wear them. And maybe to give my talk on Sunday. They are going to have to raise the podium when I get up there with my stiletto-Nike-shocks-technology.

So, did you know my FIRST BLOGIVERSARY is coming up on Saturday? Well, the anniversary of when I commandeered the blog from Jake (the Spouse).

I've been around this big, wide blogosphere, people, and I know that propriety requires that I give something away in celebration.

And so, I shall! With gladness!

I've got a 50% chance of being 100% authentic (by which I mean, almost no chance of authenticity at all, but who knows?) Coach purse that I purchased, in frigid single digit temperatures, in Chinatown earlier this year. From genuine, authentic, New York Chinatowner folk. It is brand new with (likely fake) tags. I'm going to give it away on Saturday. If you win it, you will be the envy of all your lady-blogger friends who didn't win it, and the envy of all your real-life friends, who will see it on your arm and want their own Canal Street Special. If you are a man, then you should give it to a special lady in your life, and she will likely kiss you. On the lips. Unless she is your mother. Or your sister. Cause that's creepy. You should skip your relations, and give it to someone you've got your eye on, if you know what I mean, so you can get off the Mommy blogs and get some action. Sounds like you might need it.

Anyhow, I am going to choose a comment at random from this post on Saturday, August 30th, at 8:58 am. 8:58 am is one year to the minute from when I first hit PUBLISH, sending my words out into the world, for good or ill. It's all terribly romantic, isn't it? I'll bet Jane Austen would have been an excellent blogger; although, she would probably have given away ribbons, or a new bonnet for her blogiversary.

Oh, and though I would love to send the purse overseas, I am afraid that mailing such questionable merchandise to foreign climes might cause an international incident. I am not ready for an international incident. Of any sort at all. So, continental U.S only, please!

Okay, Canada, you, too. I'm such a softy for Canada.

Tell all your Canadian friends to come visit and leave comments! (Oh, and all your other friends, too.)

Album I totally forgot to listen to for ten years but is really super great, plus look how many crickets are in my sink! Wednesday

Sure, I know.

You're thinking this post sounds like a one-off. I mean, how many great albums are there that I used to love, but then totally forgot about for a decade? Am I really going to do this every Wednesday? Sounds tedious? You are yawning a little right now?

You underestimate me. I have an ipod that is totally bulging with 90s music, even though I mostly have to listen to Coldplay. I never listen to the radio (kids freak out, scream in high decibels over top of songs), so rarely is something ever reintroduced into my bean. My bean is like a cabin in Alaska. A cabin with the internet, but no radio. There is a whole world of music to rediscover.

Also, I often have crickets in my sink. Maybe you want to see them every week. I could even serialize it, like a cricket soap opera? Maybe they become so popular I install a web camera and you can see the crickets all day and night, if you want? If 'Album I totally forgot to listen to for ten years but is really super great, plus look how many crickets are in my sink Wednesday' turns out to be really popular (like 30 comments plus, but no pressure, gentle reader), maybe I'll make it a regular thing.

First off, look how many crickets are in my bathroom sink!

This is really going to freak out my sister, Jen, who thinks crickets are scarier than spiders. This is an irrational fear, because, hey Jen, spiders bite, and also, the spiders we have around here are huge and hairy. And they bite. And they are hairy. And huge. And they bite. Crickets just chirp, and hang around the sink, and jump in your hair when you turn on the water to wet down your toothbrush.

There were five crickets. That's a lot of crickets for one sink, right? I totally didn't stage this. None of those crickets are actors or stunt doubles. I went in to brush my teeth last night, and there they all were. There were also some on the floor and in the other sink. We are pretty much infested.

So, how about this album that I totally forgot to listen to for ten years but is really super great? Well, don't get over-excited. Remember, I didn't say that YOU had totally forgotten about it for ten years, or even that you ever liked it at all. You might think it is rubbish. Ancient rubbish. Like, partially composted stinky rubbish that I shouldn't have dug outta the landfill. Or, you might be some kind of youngster, barely legal, with boobs that are high and tight (I hate you, btw), and are all like, "I think my mom listened to that while she drove me to preschool and I was strapped into my car seat. But, I'm not really into oldies."

Who are you calling an oldie? Don't you know that I have Justin Timberlake's jeans on their way to me in the U.S. Mail? Well, you can just take me off your google reader, girlie.

No, wait, don't be so hasty. I'm sorry.

Is not your fault you have perky breasts.



So, anyhow, you should all go listen to August and Everything After by Counting Crows. It has aged well, like the finest Martinelli's Apple Cider. Or moldy cheese. I liked it, in 1993; but now, I think I've slowed down a bit, matured, maybe; and I appreciate it even more. My favorites songs are Round Here and Anna Begins. They are on the player over yonder.

Why was 1993 so long ago? Songs are bonifide oldies, as am I! Is horrendous news!

Stupid, high-breasted snippets, reminding me of my approaching dotage, and looming mortality.

Ah, well. I've enjoyed getting reacquainted with the Crows (Counting, not Black, although...I did enjoy me a little Hard to Handle of a Friday afternoon, back in 1992) so much, I'm ruminating on going to see them September 5 with Maroon 5 and Augustana. I should really go before bands join AARP.

What about you? Like(d) the Crows (either sort)? Have you recently rediscovered any treasures buried on your ipod or CD shelf?

Got any crickets? Other infestations?

Any irrational fears of any sort? Irrational fears are often entertaining.

Now, don't you all comment at once.

(Sound of crickets chirping.)

Taking my coin slot into my own hands

Okay, that title didn't come out quite right.

But you know how sometimes, it is just love at first sight?

No, this isn't about that new vampire book, Breaking Wind.

(Which, I am embarrassed to say, I have completed. But thanks for lending it to me, nice lady with the initials J.R.)

It's about how, sometimes, you meet someone new, and the magic is there at the very beginning, right? There is immediate chemistry? Well, from the very first moment I took the William Rast Daisy Super Flare in Gardenia Wash into my arms, and waltzed her into the dressing room, I could tell we were going to get on famously.

But as I slipped her up over my hips, buttoned her up, and twisted around to catch a glimpse of her on my backside, I thought, now this is denim of a different color! LOOK at my rear side! LOOK! LOOK, SELF! LOOK AT YOUR BACK END! Did you get a good gander? How does she push it all up that way, so I don't look like all my junk is just pancakes, the short stack, in the steamrollered trunk? I don't know, but she did. And then, she didn't gap in the back of the waist AT ALL, which has never happened ever before in my whole entire life, except when I took my coin slot into my own hands and TAILORED MY OWN JEANS. Which totally works, but it took me 7 hours with my sewing machine. Which is really a waste of time, because...

That's seven hours of living, gone; seven hours that I could have spent gazing lustily at my own butt in the mirror, in the lovely Daisy Jeans by my man William Rast (who, it turns out, is Justin Timberlake. It's his brand), or reading aloud to my children, or serving my fellow man. Or something.

All this is great, of course. But you want to know something EVEN BETTER? Justin Timberlake makes his jeans HUGE! Enormous! So ginormous that I need my Daisies 2 FULL SIZES SMALLER than my regular jeans. Just slipping on that size makes me feel slim and svelte like a frenchy supermodel. Because of this, Daisy and I are best friends forever now. Kindred spirits. (I think I imprinted on her a tiny bit.)

So, here I yam, sitting here in my new jeans, right-e-o?

NOPE.

Daisy is totally outta my league. She runs with a faster, jet-setty crowd. She is so, so pricey. Like, you'll need some Franklin twins just to get invited to her party. Even though I know we totally belong together, I could not take her home and sit on the couch and watch girly movies and spill popcorn on her, like I daydreamed about. I began to think of us as star-crossed BFFs, and it actually started to break my heart a little bit.

Until, I remembered about the wonderful world of online auctions.

So now, I'm cyber-stalking her on Ebay. Because, SHE WILL BE MINE.

I'm sounding sorta creepy, right? In addition to shallow, which cannot be avoided when you post about jean love. But now, I'm freakin' and creepin' you out a little? Sort of like vampire love and reproduction, maybe?

HMMM.

I don't care. I just wanted to tell you about fabulous pants; if that is wrong, well, then, you are wrong, to think it is wrong. And you can just take me off your Google Reader.

No, hold on, no need to be so hasty. Don't do that. I probably won't blog about jeans again for a good, long while.

Even though, if you are a girl like me, with a crazy, curvy-licious waist to hip ratio (seems medically impossible that I could ever have a heart attack), and a body shape that can only described by the phrase "extreme pear," then you know how it is. And you will probably bid against me on my William Rast Daisy Super Flares in Gardenia. I can't blame you. But I will win, ladies, because I am going to snipe the heck outta you.

So, happy bidding! May the flattest butt win!

Dudes' synchronized speedo diving, brainwashed Cuban baseball operatives, Trivial Pursuit, Mensa daydreams

Beeswax and Spouse (Jake), watching Olympics last night:

Spouse: ACK! Look at those guys. No man with any self respect gets up in front of the whole world in a speedo, with another guy in a matching speedo, and jumps, in unison. Is a public embarrassment.

Beeswax: Is not a public embarrassment. They are Olympic athletes! Those guys could go home with a gold medal, which is more than you've got.

Spouse: Okay, sure, but when they go home and their friends see the medal hanging on the bathroom doorknob, and are like "whadidya get your gold in, man?" That guy's going to say DIVING, not SYNCH DIVING. Or he's gonna say SWIMMING, not SYNCHRONIZED SWIMMING.

What? Men's synchro was just a SNL skit, right? Not real? Cause, I totally need to Tivo it, if it's real. It would probly look like a SNL skit:

I might actually like it. I pretty much LOVE men's gymnastics. The men's all-around final in Athens when Paul Hamm won the Gold was maybe the best, most exciting hour of sport I have even seen (from my couch) in my life. (Right up there with the time on Survivor All-Stars when Richard wrestled, bit and killed the nurse shark, then served it up for lunch to his hungry teammates. Okay, fine, that might not be a sport.) I was actually on my feet, weeping, at the end. I wasn't pregnant, either. When I'm pregnant, I cry over everything. My tears don't count for much. I might even cry over, say, something like this:

When I tell you the Paul Hamm Gold Medal Evening was the most exciting sporting event I've ever witnessed, well, you might have forgotten that I was in the 3rd row, right behind the vault (but in front of Jimmy Conners), when this occurred, in Los Angeles in 1984:

And that was pretty cool. I told you about it before, I think. Mary Lou sweated on me a little bit?

Spouse continued about the diving guys (are we still talking about them?): How can this continue to be an Olympic sport, when baseball is not, Beeswax? C'mon! It's DUDES in matching speedos.

Now, Jake is pretty obviously pretty ticked that Olympic Baseball got the ax. No more baseball after Beijing. As far as I can tell, though, Jake and Fidel Castro are the only ones really worked up about it. Fidel is really super, extra ticked off with the "rich and powerful masters of the Games" who voted it out. He and Jake are totally in accord on this one. Pretty soon one of them will start muttering something about Frenchies under his breath. Jake, more likely.

Somebody out there likes the divers, though. My Mom says she watches them all. Loves them. Is mesmerized by their marvelous synchonicity.

See, Jake loves baseball. His Grandpa George Binger was even on the U.S Exhibition Baseball Team for the World Exposition in London in 1938. Or something like that. Please correct if I am wrong. So, his family has been trying to support Baseball in the Olympics for 80 years now. I'm not sure exactly what sorta bee got in Fidel's bonnet. I think he just wants more potential opportunities to pound on the United States with baseball bats. He's not going to be able to hide any weapons on his athletes while they are wearing only this:

I mean, these poor guys are busy just keeping all the luggage on board. If you know what I mean.

Wink.

I should really never blog about sports. It makes me sound like an idiot. When Jake and I play Trivial Pursuit on the X-Box, I go around and get all my pie pieces but one, Sports and Leisure; then, I spend the rest of the time while Jake catches up hoping to get a Leisure question instead of Sporting one (cause I actually know more about mixed drinks than I do Sports, and as you know, I am a teetotaller, except, totally no tea, either. Except herbal). Then, when we are neck and neck, he gives me more sports questions for the final one at the end. They are never questions on Mary Lou Retton or Paul Hamm. Is totally unfair. Finally, Jake gives me a History question, and lets me win.

Then, I gloat a lot, cause I love to win Trivial Pursuit. It supports my secret theory that I am awesome and smart, and that Mensa is going to call me any day now, just begging me to join up. And I will turn them down, because in addition to being awesome and smart, I am also terribly humble, and joining brainiac societies sounds pretty uppity, dontcha know? But the point, of course, is they totally want me. So, there in my mind, I'm awesome, brilliant, humble, and popular with my mental cohort. Oh and gorgeous, cause on the day they called, I am having the best hair day. Only, then I think maybe I've gone too far. Cause Mensa members probably don't care about good hair days. They probably are just brainy, and not well-rounded like I am. Except that I don't know any sports trivia. But you don't need any sports trivia knowledge to be in Mensa. Everybody knows that.

I really shouldn't talk about Fidel, either. He might send his brainwashed operatives after me, Frank Sinatra-in-the-Manchurian-Candidate-style. Only, brainwashed in Spanish, not Korean, obviously.

Then Jake starts talking again (Is he asking me to play Trivial Pursuit? No?): Look, now those divers go shower together and sit in the hot tub in their speedos. It's embarrassing, I tell ya. What kind of Olympic sport gets hot tubs? Where are the waiters with the pina coladas?

Beeswax: MMMM. I want a hot tub and a Pina Colada.

Roughing it, Beeswax style. (i.e. watching satellite TV and eating junk food)

I took the kids up to the cabin in Payson on Wednesday, so we could eat s'mores cooked over the Viking range and watch BBC America all day and all night long. BBC America is awesome, and we don't have it at home.

Jake joined us Thursday night. He likes BBC America almost as much as I do.

Friday, we took the kids out in the Rhino.

We had planned to return home Friday night, but a wicked storm picked up just as we were packing up. The kids were so enamored of our instant stream in the backyard, we decided to stay.

Cash in the Attic was on BBC America, anyway. Can't miss that. Is the BEST, after Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, the show where the Hell's Kitchen chef yells at British folks for not making proper gravy and serving tinned tuna on lettuce. Which doesn't sound tasty, of course, but does it deserve THAT sort of language? I say nay, Gordon.

This one is for Gini. Sam's our only kid with Jake's recessive eyeballs. Purty, ain't they?

After two hours in the mud, kids were ready for a good scrubbing. Then, fed them all tinned tuna on lettuce with s'mores and gravy, and sent them off to bed, so Kelly and Jake could watch How Clean is Your House? (turns out, way cleaner than that guy's), Britain's Worst Teeth (only caught the end, but there were some very, very bad teeth). Also, Bargain Hunt, hosted by this dapper fellow, left over from the 70s:

As you see, it was pretty much Survivorman, up there in Payson this weekend. We Beeswaxes really know how to CAMP!

Sammy : fruit snacks :: dog : chocolate

What does this mean?

1. Dogs have better taste in treats than my son Sam.

2. If given the chance, Sam would eat fruit snacks until he either threw up or died.

Frog you, suckas.

Tommy's first day of school, ever, in his whole life, was yesterday. He learned about the color red. Here he is with his first tiny piece of shiz, er, crafty masterwork, that I will surely feel driven to save, in stacks and boxes, until it burns in the fires of the apocalypse:

So, in honor of his very first day in the hallowed halls of academia, I would like to share some of what we've been teaching him at home to prepare (to talk trash on the playground during recess):

A few days ago, we went to Meowson's Frozen Mustard for lunch. (That's what a barely-verbal Sam used to call Neilson's Frozen Custard, and now I've strong-armed everyone into calling it that. I fake a little no comprendo if a child of mine dares to call it by the correct name). As some take-out customers left the shop, Tommy yells after them:

"bye bye, suckas!"

I was horrified-slash-loving it. Mostly, just loving it. After all, it's hysterical. And now we know what my Mom was teaching Tommy while I took the older kids to the movies earlier in the day. I expect that he will always comes home from Grandma's house with a few new words. Grandma is a speech therapist, after all. But usually, they aren't so danged entertaining.

I will say, though, that Tommy is in a good place, linguistically. We can get him to parrot nearly anything we say, with only moderate comprehension, and poor 'consonent-R' blends.' (Except 'tr', at which he excels, which we have already discussed, at length). The Rs, on most occasions, are mostly inaudible.

Jake and I have had some good times lately, encouraging Tom to say shirt and frog repeatedly.

Or sometimes other variations on the same theme, including: baby shirt, bull shirt, or my favorite, frog you.

Hey, it might be poor parenting, and in poor taste, but what else are we to do for entertainment, with our Tivo nearly empty, except for SYTYCD and Burn Notice?

When we got home from Meowsons, I zipped Tom into his crib tent and whispered the usual "night, night." Then, instead of "love you, Tommy," I whispered (in my sweetest, lovey-dovey-baby-talk voice): "bye bye...suckas."

He gave me a little wave and a smile through the mesh netting before he responded, in kind:

"Momma. Night, night.

Bye, bye, suckas."

(Please feel free to leave me comments now about how I'm going straight to Hell.)

Will Swap Cookies for Breaking Dawn

So...Breaking Dawn came out nearly two days ago.

You guys should be done now, right?

That's why Relief Society was only half full today, I'm sure.

Who wants to lend it to me?

I'll make you treats.

Mesa ladies preferred. Shipping costs on that size book are gonna be hefty. Plus, who wants stale cookies?

(I know, I know, I bagged a little on The Host, and whined about the whininess of New Moon, but that doesn't mean I can't read them, does it?)

My Sweet, Sweet Moves are Going Private; or, Loose Hips Sink Ships

I'm gonna tell you, with some immodesty, that I am pretty good at yoga for how much time I've spent actually doing yoga. Which is like none, compared to most middle class white ladies. (Or at least, that guy thinks so, and he put it in a book, which we have sitting by our toilet.)

Let me reiterate: I did not say that I was actually good at yoga.

You see, as Phoebe of yore, I'm very bendy. Extra flexible, for a no-spring-chicken-of-a-pear-shaped-white-lady-who-has-birthed-4-children. I'm NOT bendy like that guy in Oceans 11. So really, I'm more like medium bendy, if you are comparing mine with all the bendiness in the whole world.

How bendy am I? Well, even when I sit on the couch and eat Cheetos for like 6 months straight, I can get right up off the couch and do this:

And from there, I can lean forward, rest my chest on my feet, put my head on the floor, and cat nap, er, meditate (on world affairs, or whatever I'm supposed to be thinking about when really I'm just lying on the floor, wondering what sort of havoc Sam is wreaking in the gym's Kidszone), if I so desire. I can even put my legs behind my head (only one at a time, though, and it isn't as comfortable as it looks.) On the sit and reach test in my freshman aerobics class, I pretty much wiped the floor with all those Arizona Wildcat Cheerleaders. In full honesty, though, I might have been helped, in that case, by my creepily long, ape-like arms.

You see, I have some crazy loose hip joints. Among other things. I'm mildly surprised my legs don't fall right outta their sockets. I'm sort of lifted up in the pride of my heart over them, if you want the truth. (And that's not the righteous kind, you know.)

Actually, this whole post is really an excuse to let you all know how extra-bendy-awesome I am, but in a mildly self-deprecating, and thus potentially palatable, way.

Last night, though, in my Body Flow class, when the teacher told us we could move from bridge pose:

into this pose, apparently called chakrasana:

I realized something. (Maybe the meditation is paying off, cause I had a tiny little epiphany.)

I might be too old to try out potentially crazy stuff in public. You know how they warn you "don't try this at home"? Well, this is poor advice when it comes to crazy yoga poses. I totally should try them at home.

After all, I'm closer to 40 than 30, ever since last week.

Now don't get the wrong idea. I chakrasana-ed, alrighty. I held that pose a good long time, too. I pretty much dominated it.

Mostly because once I got up there, I was afraid to come down.

When I finally did, I bonked my head, right good, on the wood floor (that is covered in other people's sweat and shoe-bottom germs, and likely worse. If you just don't think about it, it should be easy to ignore things that are microscopic. It worked with the plague, small pox, and cholera. Oh, and ecoli. What? Okay, maybe it didn't work). I also pulled something out in my shoulder on the way down. Something, there in my shoulder, that is necessary for being able to lift my arm up and down. Which I enjoy doing, even more that I enjoy the chakrasana.

See, the thing is, I'm not especially bendy in my arms. And I guess moving the Cheetos from the bag to my mouth hasn't made them especially strong, neithuh.

I'm not giving up, though. I'm totally going to keep on keepin' on with the tough, contortionist-type poses. I'm just going temporarily private with any new, sweet yoga moves I want to try.

You know, like some of you people do. People that say you are my friends, but have private blogs that I cannot view. Curse you, private bloggers.

Okay, no curse you. Is sort of mean to curse you. Is not good for my chi.

Wait, that's not yoga...Anyhow...

what, you ask, sort of sweet move will I tackle next?

Yup.

I'm not really that far off, you know.

I'll let you know when it's ready for the public.

To reiterate: Only my crazy yoga moves are going private; as in, I'm no longer doing them in Body Flow class because I'm injuring myself. Blog is still 100% public, and will be, forevermore. I love your comments!

P.S. If you are visiting my blog because you are looking for new and bendy characters to cast in Oceans 14 (because you really need new characters. Everyone is so tired of looking at Matt, Brad and George all the time), call me. I'm interested.

Second Best Birthiversary EVER

I've got loads to say, but I didn't want to displace Tori Spelling from the top-o-the-blog until she'd had a good, long run. Those Digital Image Pro creations- er, I mean, real live paparazzi-like pictures- took me a long, long time. Like 10 minutes, maybe. If you haven't had the pleasure, please scroll down at your leisure and peruse them.

Anyway, our first full day in California was my birthiversary.

And it was a good one.

I can't, of course, say it was the best ever, because, obviously, the best ever would be the first one: July 19, 1996. My 23rd birthday, and the day I got married.

So go ahead and do the math. I'll wait. You can leave the 'no spring chicken/mind is going and memory fading/you are old enough to be a grandma if you and your daughter were both teen moms' jokes in the comments.

The day started with my official birthday cake: a delicious maple bar from Donuts #2 in Encinitas. And an apple fritter, if you are going to insist on full caloric disclosure.

I must say, every birthday should start with Donuts #2.

(I like to take every opportunity to say Donuts #2. Is like worst possible name for a donut shop. Donuts #1 nearly as bad, but Donuts #3 is not even funny, so possibly worse?)

Then, after I'd squeezed my sugar-bloated donut belly into my new skinny-lady jeans (that I bought at Hub in Scottsdale because I am getting skinny, or was getting skinny until I went on vacation and gained $%&@#! pounds), my Mom, Jen and I headed to Anthropologie, where we found some lovely tops (we knew we would. We always do). Jen said my birthday party had the best party favors ever (the tops), and she wants to be invited again next year. Yeah, me too. Thanks, Mom! Then we got some tasty green corn tamales at the Yellow Coyote. Pants were already stretched nearly to limit, but there was still more to come.

Meanwhile, Jake had taken all four children to the Swap Meet all the way down by Sea World. They came home with a trash bag full of Legos, some fancy in-line skates for Jake, some parasols, black market Pokemon cards, and flowers for me. They returned pretty exhausted by all dickering. (I never pass up any opportunity to use the word 'dickering'.) Then, they all went swimming while I arranged flowers and put on one of my new tops.

Mom came over to watch the kids, and Jake and I, (with Jen and Andrew) drove down the coast a few miles to Jake's Del Mar for an anniversary dinner. Jake had wrangled us a table overlooking the water, and as the sun set, we could see dozens of dolphins diving in and out of the waves, alongside the surfers. (At first, I thought they were sharks, became very agitated, and nearly called 911, but then I didn't.)

Here's the crew at Jake's. No, those are not bits of Stonehenge peeking out from behind Andrew's head (yes, they are). This is 100% kosher photo (is our actual table, is actually us, is actual dolphin, is digital creation). Maybe I should learn to take pictures at the scene of the crime? Is an interesting idea. Will mull it over.

I ordered artichoke fritters and calamari, apple and walnut salad, and some pecan-crusted halibut. Jen accused me of having a crush on the curly-headed waiter, and even when I pretended to a small one, Jake did not have the good manners to act the jealous cuckold. I forgot his rudeness when dessert arrived: a giant slice of hula pie. I keep coming back to Jake's Del Mar for this perfect confection of macadamia nut ice cream, chocolate cookie crust, fudge sauce and more macadamia nuts. Is a party on a plate.

Every day should end with a giant slice of hula pie.

Finally, as I unzipped my jeans and rode back to Carlsbad with the seat reclined, listening to Coldplay, I realized I had barely set eyes on my kids all the day whole day long. Not since the Donuts #2.

I've got to say, it was the second best birthiversary ever.

That's just how I roll (with my homey, Tori Spelling)

Yeah, yeah, yeah. More about vacation later. I know the real reason you all visit my blog:

KELLY'S CELEBRITY SITINGS!
(What? No, really, I did it once before. You don't remember? Click here to review.)

Anyway, there we (Mom and I) were on Thursday afternoon, celebrating Pioneer Day (24th of July) the only way we know how: hanging out with Tommy and Claire in the hallway outside the Moonbeams Boutique in the Four Seasons Aviara (in Carlsbad, CA) hotel, and minding our own beeswax.
We were supposed to be inside the boutique with Jen, perusing the $80 little girls' plastic flip flops, and frosting up the glass over those pretty jewels made by an Encinitas artist that we all love; but Tommy was not thrilled with the shopping, wasn't even mildly distracted by that ring pop I gave him as a sort of hyper-sticky 2-year-old pacifier.

While we stood there, becalming the toddlers, Tori and her entourage sidle past. First came The Husband and Small Boy (I googled them and found out their names are Dean and Liam), and maybe the dog, but I don't think so. Behind them was Tori, pushing a fancy hot pink pram, a bugaboo-like contraption containing new baby Stella, born last month) and next to Tori, a potentially nanny-like individual.

Tori was sporting a sheer green and yellow shirt with no pants. I will give her benefit of doubt and call this a bathing suit cover up. I need to say that Tori is quite gutsy to be seen pantsless in five star hotel lobby just weeks after giving birth. I would never attempt such a feat, but I think she pulled it off. When she noticed me staring at her, I tried to look away and whistle, but I don't think it did any good. I'd totally been caught mid-90210 flashback.

I immediately texted Jake, who was out on golf course, and Shawna, my BFF since 4th grade, who was also staying there at the hotel.

As it turned out, though, nobody much seemed to care that Donna Martin was in the hallway with me.

But wait. That's not all. Yes, there is EVEN MORE Tori for your creepy stalking enjoyment!

Later that evening, my sister Jen was over to the spa. She hears a man's voice yelling "Tori, in here. There's got to be a bathroom in here! Do you have Stella?" And Jen's like, holy cow, get the man outta the women's locker room. There're nekked ladies in here!

Anyway, Jen hears Tori's voice urgently reply "Yeah, I've got her. But where's the bathroom?" Just then, the disembodied-man-voice comes around the corner in an enormous black lady's body. Is just an extremely manly-ish woman, not an actual man. Perhaps a bodyguard? Jen is mighty relieved.

But Tori is not relieved. She has some urgent needs. Tori REALLY needs to pee, or something. And she cannot find any toilets. And she is becoming frantic, pushing around her fancy stroller with Stella inside, in the relatively small space of the locker room, in chicken-with-its-head-cut-off-fashion.

(The scene looked exactly like the above photo, except the stroller was pink, they were indoors, Tori isn't pregnant anymore, she had crazy eyes, and she wasn't wearing any pants.)

So Jen, seeing the panic in Tori's eyes, tells her "the bathrooms are right over there," and Tori says "thanks," and makes a beeline in the direction of Jen's finger.

Then, Jen got her cameraphone, put it under the stall, and snapped a few candid shots.

No. Not really. But wasn't it a good thing Jen was there to help her? I mean, without Jen, Tori might have soiled herself! (Though, of course, she couldn't have wet her pants, cause she still wasn't wearing any.)

No, I didn't name my kids Nancy and Ned Beeswax...but maybe I shoulda

When I finally talked Jake into getting my huge box of Nancy Drew books down from the attic this week, and Ross and Jane got a gander at all 60 or so of them, and their eyes lit up, and they got all excited and started reading the titles to each other, I thought: this is a great moment. My kids love my Nancy Drews. They are fighting over The Password to Larkspur Lane. They want to know, what could be The Clue in the Old Diary? They have already read through about 10 of them so far, including the Mystery of the 99 steps, the Clue in the Crumbling Wall.

Maybe I should have stuck with my original plan (cooked up nearly thirty years ago), and named my first and second born children Ned and Nancy. Turns out, they would have liked it.

I know I learned in my children's literature class at BYU that "plot drives us, but we learn from character." I know that Nancy is perpetually 19 and cruising around in her hot convertible, and perhaps is sort of a tease because she's led Ned on for nearly 80 years, only calling him when she's in a tight scrape and needs help or brawn that Bess and George can't provide, and not because she's had an epiphany and realized she can't live without him, or his romantic pecks on the cheek. I also know Nancy doesn't teach us anything about the human experience, beyond the awesome human experience of solving mysteries with clues that seem to fall right into your lap.

I know that Carolyn Keene is just a pseudonym, not for just one prolific lady, but for many ghost writers who fleshed out stories outlined by the Stratemeyer Syndicate, who also came up with the Bobbsey Twins and the Hardy Boys, as well as dozens of other series. Nancy was first published in 1930, just weeks after big daddy Stratemeyer's demise. His daughter took over from there. And I also remember the way my professor scrunched up his face like he smelled something rotten, as he tried to tell us we should dissuade our future pupils (I was an elementary ed major for 2 years) from reading stacks of Nancy Drew books to the exclusion of better, finer, potentially life-changing literature. But I don't care. My parents liked them (my Dad was strictly Hardy Boys as the party line went, but when he'd read through his school library's holdings, he said he secretly snuck a little Nancy home in his backpack.) I liked them. Now, my kids like them.

I ask, what exactly is wrong with literature that doesn't change your life? We don't expect so much of our television programming. I've got me a Stephanie Plum mystery (first try for me) for the beach this week, or there's Mary Higgins Clark, or I'm sure lots of others, that are Nancy for grown ladies. I also like me a little Dirk Pitt, occasionally, even though he's definitely aimed at the Hardy Boys demographic. Dirk's been macho and chauvinistic since the 70s, and who wants him to become a women's-libbing modern man? Besides N.O.W., of course. And probably all the ladies on The View, if they took a vote. Who else, but virile Dirk, is still in the mood for a little hanky-panky, in one of the water-logged staterooms on the just-raised Titanic, even with a fresh bullet wound? Nobody. Well, perhaps James Bond.

I'm certain, even if my Professor Sourpuss was not, that there's room for all sorts of books in this world. You might never win a Pulitzer, Dirk and Nancy, but we still love you. We like to take you to the beach, or on airplanes. We like to take you to bed with 2 pounds of See's chocolate when we've had a long, long day. Anyway, not that it is likely you ever would, since you haven't, yet: but, don't ever change.

Do you have a favorite Nancy Drew mystery? Or a good series in the same vein for grown ladies or gentlemen? Please share!

P.S. Sue, from navel gazing at its finest, started a Mormon Mommy Blog list, and she put me on it! You can be part of it, too. Go see it!

So, Tom thinks he can dance.

But he can't.

I'll explain.

When I got up Wednesday morning about 7:30, I poured myself some Grape Nuts, and settled my rear deep into the leather cushions of the family room sofa. I was planning to be there awhile. I had two weeks of So You Think You Can Dance to watch. I don't know how I let myself get so far in arrears. It is the only show I Tivo this summer. I mean, besides the House Hunters International re-runs, of course. And I don't even re-watch those, unless the potential buyers are looking to renovate a ruin, and then I'm glued to the couch. I'm a total sucker for a ruin. Or France. I'm also a sucker for France. Have you seen the one where the American woman and her German lover are looking for a 3 bedroom flat in Paris' 6th Arrondissement? No, no, sorry, I've gotten sidetracked again.

When I watch SYTYCD, my kids get wild looks in their eyes and start moving. They can't help themselves, they can't keep still. They usually start out dancing, but it quickly degrades into yelling and wrestling and somersaults and such. About 1 week into the dance marathon (i.e. 9:20 am), Tommy starts body slamming Ross. Repeatedly, but in a friendly, inviting sort of way. Ross is playing legos and mostly ignores Tommy's overtures. So I pipe up: "Ross, why don't you put away the legos and cavort with Tommy?" Tommy can't wait, though. While Ross is on his way to put the legos up on the shelf above the TV, Tom lunges at him again. Sadly, he misses Ross, and ends up throwing himself headlong into the corner of the rocking chair.

And thus began our troubles.

But before I get into all that: Let's talk about the rocking chair. Is this the same rocking chair corner with which I collided as a ten-month-old baby, (who had no business walking, much less running, about the house and crashing into furniture), leaving a small pock-like scarred indentation in the center of my forehead, still visible today if I hold my head just so in noon-day sunlight? Yes. The very same chair.

But wait. I'll bet you don't know this chair's provenance. While I was still a babe in utero, my Father found the rocking chair on the curb one day in East Lansing, Michigan. It was painted green, and not in good shape. It had been left out for trash collection. Dad took it home, worked some magic on it (took off green paint, tightened up the joints, etc.), and gave it to my Mom for to rock me in. It was only one year later that the chair nearly brained me. Somebody, who knew these things, told my parents the rocking chair is well over 100 years old. So now we know, the ancient chair (given to me to rock my own offspring) is haunted and attacks babies. No wonder it was left on the curb. How many other young victims of its sharp corners have there been over the past 1.5 centuries?

So, Tommy is gushing blood. From his head. From his nose. The kids are fuh-reaking out. I get everyone presentable, drop the elder three at my parents', and head to the ER. They get us in fairly quickly, put four stitches in his head, send us on our way.

In the meantime, my sister Jen's foot went gimpy, and she was hobbling around her house with a pogo stick for a crutch. (Which isn't ideal, because unlike regular crutches, it has a spring in it, which moves up and down depending on pressure applied). So Mom picked up Jen's oldest two, and takes the whole lot of them to Chuck E. Cheese for like 3 hours. Jen's foot is much better, now. Don't feel any obligation to send her any "so sorry you're a gimp" cards. If you are really itching to send a card to someone, send me one that says "So sorry you aren't going to Cabo again tomorrow instead of your sister Jen, who's foot is miraculously healed."

Yesterday, Tommy's stitches came out. On their own, or Tom picked at them. Can't know which. There is a curly blue string hanging out of Tom's forehead which he won't leave alone (could you? I couldn't). I didn't want to go back to the ER, because I found out it cost me $500 bucks (ER is a deductible, not co-pay, dangit). So this morning I saw the PA at the pediatrician's office who said, "no, so sorry; it is too late to restitch. I'm not sure why the ER didn't make knots at every stitch. Or glue it. And Tommy has really dark skin, so the scar could be pretty gnarly (okay, he didn't say gnarly. I just wanted to say gnarly). If it were my kid, I'd take him down to see Dr. Goldstein, the pediatric plastic surgeon."

Went home by way of Taco Bell to collect my kids from my parents, again. A woman in line with them told Sam he had the best hair she'd ever seen (and this is with full bedhead, cause I hadn't brushed it today), and gave him a buck, just for growing it out of his head. Then she realized he had two siblings with him, and they got paid, too. For being related to that head of hair, I guess.

I'm feeling kind of stressed out by all the medical drama, and the fact that after all this his head wound is still gaping wide open. So I honked at an ambulance for cutting me off (it had no lights or sirens, though), and guess what? It didn't make me feel better, not one whit.

When I got home, I went in to use the W.C., and sat down in Sam's pee, because Sam won't lift the toilet lid. EVER. So while I sat there, in the pee, I thought about teaching him an object lesson where I get Ross to pee on the seat, then have Sam sit in it. But then I realized he'd probably remember it when he was grown, and need therapy. Plus, it just isn't nice, making people sit in pee. I should know.

Tommy also re-learned to climb out of his crib this yesterday. He's known how for ages, but he finally put it together that the ability to shimmy up and over crib sides equals potentially no naps, ever again. EVER. So then I had to go buy a baby jail (crib tent); but the one I bought and brought home from Babies r Us, for the low, low price of $75, had been used by someone to house a Siberian Tiger for approximately 3 years. Or a filthy baby with long, sharp fingernails. It had 6 inch holes in the netting, rips, tears, broken poles, and was covered in hair and dirt. So then I had to pack it and everybody up and go back for another one. Which finally worked. And Tommy is taking a nap in it. Right this second. And no, I'm not embarrassed that I lock up my baby. He's obviously a danger to himself: Look at his forehead for proof.

I love nap time. Maybe I'll go finish watching So You Think You Can Dance. Since it got preempted Wednesday, by all the blood. Then I'll call the plastic surgeon. Who maybe I should have called first thing. Live and learn, eh?

Free books, cheap wheat

Just a few deals for you:

I just got Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist (I've been wanting to read this) FREE on Itunes! You can get the audiobook through July 14. I'm going to try to listen to it on the way to California next week, even though I HATE being read aloud to, even by Jeremy Irons. I mean, hey, it's FREE.

Costco (at least the new one on Sossaman) has 45 pound buckets of Red Wheat for $27. That's not a bad price, and it is a REALLY easy way to stock up on on wheat. I usually make my bread from Hard White, but that is much more expensive and harder to get these days. I am tempted, even though my whole closet is already full of wheat. There isn't room for my Imelda-like shoe collection.

Now, is anyone out there willing to lend me Counting Stars by Michelle Paige Holmes? I need it for book club next week and I don't feel like going to the bookstore. 

How my Pringles and I celebrate the 5th of July

As you probably already know, it is bad manners to not eat anything on major holidays. Especially if you talk about not eating anything, or give eaters the hairy eyeball for their caloric intake. People will notice you are not eating, and it might make them a little uncomfortable as they stuff their faces in celebration. You do not want to cause anyone discomfort. It is not genteel. So, if it's Christmas, drink your egg nog. Eat a little fudge. If it is Thanksgiving, do not ask your Grandma to make you your very own green beans without the crunchy onions on top. She is old, and doesn't have time for that. Oh! And eat your pie. The crust, too. And don't whine that there isn't any diet cool whip. Only ask for a recipe if you really want to duplicate it at home, and not because you are searching for hidden fat deposits.

I'm not saying you need to stuff you face for Arbor Day; that is totally unnecessary. Don't even try to make a case for it, unless your dad is Johnny Appleseed or Al Gore or something. And it shouldn't really have to be said, but Canadian Thanksgiving only counts if you are Canadian. If your passport says USA, politeness cannot be your excuse for going to the Canadian Super Buffet on the second Monday in October. If such a place exists. Is just run-of-the-mill gorging, and not the mannerly gorging of the well-bred. And of course, if you are abstaining due to diabetes, lactose intolerance, or being a Jehovah's Witness who cannot celebrate these holidays, you have a valid out.

So, in an effort to be courteous and polite to my co-celebrants, I had myself an Independence Day feast. Those Declaration signers deserve this much, at least. I mean, once the ink was dry on that auspicious document, those guys were pretty much toast if they lost the war. Before that, they were disgruntled, skirmishing colonists, who might not have known better. But a new country? Treason. They'd be strung up for sure, once they lost the war. And it totally looked like they would, obviously. And then, I don't want to spoil the ending for anyone who hasn't seen the movie, but they WON! That sort of bravery and great good luck, coupled with divine intervention, deserves a celebratory hamburger with all the trimmings, in my book. I even bought myself a can of Pringles to go along.

Instead of regular Pringles, though, I bought the NO FAT ones. Then, on the 5th of July, when I have no excuse at all for indulgence (not being sociable, not a real holiday) I ate the whole can. Then I read the fine print. There is FAKE FAT in there. OLEAN. Which can cause some fearful intestinal difficulties. I won't go into this further, because not one of you commented on my circumcision joke last week, so I only can deduce that you all must be a bit prudy. Which is cool. I don't want to offend your delicate lady-like sensibilities with potentially leaking diarrhea.

Sorry. I did it, anyway. I really felt like saying leaking diarrhea. Which sounds much worse than the regular kind, you know? But luck was with me. I won the olean lottery! I didn't get any LD. I mean, seriously, who else would get the LD, except the girl who eats the whole can while reading her mediocre novel, Double Bind? I will not push my luck, though. I should have bought the regular chips in the first place, in celebration of my freedom. I was breaking my own rules. No more Olean for me.

Still, I refuse to feel bad about my little Pringles slip-up. The 5th of July must be an important holiday, too, right? Those Declaration signers probably took all their wives out to Sizzler or somewhere good that day to celebrate their likely impending demise, with gift cards courtesy of the Continental Congress (who had voted for independence on the 2nd of July, but asked Thomas Jefferson to make it official with a fancy document. That took a couple of days, even for TJ.) Maybe they all sat in an enormous booth, that first 5th, sipping cokes and brainstorming the preamble to the Constitution.

No, that can't be right. Gouverneur Morris wrote the preamble, and he didn't sign the Declaration, so he wouldn't have been invited to the Sizzler party.

His brother, Lewis, was there. Maybe he took notes.

The primary sources are unclear on food and beverage preferences of the founding fathers, but I think they were a well-mannered crowd, and celebrating a major event, so they probably splurged that night and ate the real Pringles with their burgers.

'Cause Sizzler probably served Pringles in 1776.

Gentile hot dogs, Krispy Kreme Sundaes, and Sam's doppelganger

I have to put something up to displace Guns n Roses from the top-o-the-blog before we leave for our 4th of July festivities at the cabin. Axel's mug, coupled with all the meat talk, was making me mildly nauseous. I can only imagine you felt the same...

Last night at cousin Isabella's party, there was a crock pot of assorted hot dogs: cheese filled, general beef and Hebrew National. I asked Jake's brother Brigham, "How can you tell the Hebrew Nationals from the other weinies?"

He didn't get the joke. It was probably the crummy delivery.

No matter, because soon we had KRISPY KREME SUNDAES: raised doughnut, scoop of vanilla ice cream, sprinkles, and a cherry. I shared Sammy's, so I wouldn't regain any of my NINE lost pounds, but it was GOOD. Otherwise, I would have put away three of those, no trouble. Thanks, Gini, Sam and Janae!

Jake's Mom found these pictures on Rubberball.com, a stock photography website. Do you think this kid looks like Sammy?

Here is Sam, 2 years ago, just after he cut his own hair and made me cry:

Then his hair grew back, so he looks a little like the shaving kid's fro'd twinner, maybe:

So, is this kid Sam's brother-from-another-mother? His alter ego?

Did someone clone Sam, like they did Dolly the Sheep?

Welcome to The Jungle

NO, NO. This isn't about them or that horrid song.

So then, are my children even crazier than usual, and my house extremely humid like a tropical rainforest, due to 6 pre-Church showers? Well, yes; but no, that's not what this is about. Keep guessing.

What? Am I finally going to post photos of Jake's golf trip to Costa Rica last December? Um, I wasn't planning on it, since he's got his own blog he could use if he wanted; but here's one if you are interested (playing Tarzan instead of golf):

Well, then, if none of those, could I be referring to the graphic, stomach-turning images of unhealthy meat packing, made famous in the 1906 Upton Sinclair novel, The Jungle, a book that I have never read?

YES, YES, that's it! You've guessed it! (I really didn't think you would).

You see, unlike everybody else, (who totally loves it like they love puppies and chocolate chip cookies) I am not a big fan of raw meat. I avoid it, mostly. I buy flash frozen, boneless, skinless chicken breasts, so I don't have to manhandle them, much. Or whole, seasoned, cooked birds at Costco. Semi-annually, I buy a roast and cook it in the crock pot until it is shrivelled and nearly charred. I have been known to attempt a few rather tame things with ground beef. I do prefer the people at In-N-Out to do the work for me, if possible. If I had to kill my own meat, there is 100% chance I would be a vegetarian.

In college, my roommate/cousin Melanie would occasionally make me buy meat, but she would mostly cook it, all the while making jokes that she was going to leave the little blood-soaked pillow at the bottom of the package under my bed pillow. These good-natured jabs would often give me horrible dreams, which in psychiatric jargon are called meat-mares (or should be).

These days, Melanie has been canning her own meat at home. When, say, chicken goes on sale at Albertsons, she buys 20 pounds and 'puts it up'. I once walked in on one of Melanie's meat disciples, Heather, with a sink full of raw meat, while I was in the throes of morning sickness with Tom. I nearly puked on Heather's living room rug.

One day, though, Melanie gave me a 1/2 pint jar of beef and told me to go make some tacos. When I finally got around to it, 6 months later, Jane told me it was the best meat she ever had in her life (course, the standard is quite low at our house, but it WAS good), and the rest of the kids concurred. So when Melanie told me the beef prices were low because the cattlemen can't afford to feed them and are slaughtering them, I thought, okay, I'm ready. Let's do this.

So we did. I canned meat. 18 pints in Aunt Ardy's pressure canner. Then, I might have gotten a little crazy, and did more on Saturday night, since we couldn't find a single babysitter; even though we called like 40 of them, who all had better things to do. You know I totally would have gone to that party and maybe seen Get Smart, instead of playing with meat, given the chance. I may have joined the meat cult, but I haven't been fully brainwashed. YET.

I'm fairly sure at some point in my past, I said something like "Me? Can meat? Sure, right before the world comes to an end." So you all better watch out for the Apocalypse. Cause I think I also said something similar about me driving a minivan. And we've had 4 mini-vans. So, repent if you need it (and we all do). The time could be nigh.

If this is the end, though, I'm ready. With lots of beef in jars. (I'd put a photo of my actual jars on here, but Tommy took off with the cable that sucks pics from the camera to the computer.)

This morning, Melanie called and tried to lure me back into The Jungle with cheap chicken tenders at Sprouts. (Tempting, since tenders don't need any butching before being stuffed into jars). But I haven't given in to temptation. YET.

Still, I have joined the ranks of the meat packers. I've got the bloody apron. Now, is there some sort of union I need to sign up for, or some Safeway I need to picket?

Just let me know.